


Ariel's Supernatural Drop-In Centre and Stiles' Supernatural Problem

by peroxideshots



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Possessed Stiles, RIP Allison Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:30:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peroxideshots/pseuds/peroxideshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariel’s Centre for Supernatural and Spiritual Matters.<br/>That was what Lydia Martin called her living room. It was a sort of drop-in clinic for people with supernatural problems. Of course, the neighbours all assumed it was just code for some drug business; they would always close their doors in her face no matter how nicely she smiled at them. How else could they explain the eclectic mix of people they saw being buzzed in and out of her apartment at all hours of the day? And night, for that matter. The werewolves don't often keep strict daylight hours. It’s an endless struggle for Lydia.</p>
<p>But what ends up being an even bigger struggle for Lydia is meeting Scott's childhood friend, Stiles. With his sad eyes and exhausted sleepwalking and the scratches he always has on his arms when he wanders back home at sunrise, it's definitely a struggle for Lydia to solve the mystery in Stiles' head. </p>
<p>Especially when Stiles isn't even sure that he's <i>alone</i> in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ariel’s Centre for Supernatural and Spiritual Matters.

Deaton had insisted it was the perfect name for what Lydia was aiming to achieve – Lydia, after five years, still wasn’t sure. It barely fit across the white business cards sitting in the bowl in her living room, for a start. And, of course, the neighbours all assumed it was code for some drug business; they would always close their doors in her face no matter how nicely she smiled at them. How else could they explain the eclectic mix of people they saw being buzzed in and out of her apartment at all hours of the day? And night, for that matter. The werewolves don't often keep strict daylight hours. It’s an endless struggle for Lydia.

The only thing Lydia _is_ sure about is her stage-name, her shield that kept work from everything else in her life – Ariel. Only a handful of people knew the significance of the name and the rest just assumed she used the alias because of her bright red hair. Lydia, for the most part, just let people believe what they wanted.

During the day, Lydia’s apartment sees an endless stream of people coming and going. The select few, who, by word of mouth (Lydia has never really been one to advertise herself and her skills) come to her for advice and help. A particular type of advice and help – the supernatural variety of advice and help. It isn’t any wonder he neighbours get suspicious.

And Lydia, well... She had taken it upon herself to help the strays that ended up in her house. Usually the people who wandered through her door had tried everything else and found her as a last resort, a throwaway effort; a last ditch attempt. Her living room had seen countless desperate and lost souls, all searching for something no one else could find for them.

Lydia Martin was just a girl. A Banshee girl, sure. But still just a girl. So, from the moment a visitor – a client – buzzed up to apartment 3B, to the moment she let them out again, Lydia wasn’t Lydia. She was Ariel, the Psychic.

Or Ariel the Medium, the Clairvoyant, the Spiritualist, and on one fateful occasion, Ariel the Faith Healer – everyone had their own names for her. Everyone had their own reason for turning up on her doorstep. But as long as she channelled Ariel, none of the people in her living had ever guessed what Lydia really was.

Lydia didn’t do anything half-heartedly. Her living room was dressed for the part – the role of sort-of-crazy-twenty-something-psychic-girl. Lydia had discovered early on that people wanted their money’s worth; they wanted the beaded curtains and the crystal balls and the floaty headscarves and feathery earrings. So Lydia gave her clients what they wanted, and they always left smelling vaguely of incense and feeling extremely accomplished. Because, to put it frankly – Lydia _was_ extremely accomplished. At a lot of things, in fact. And one of those just happened to be talking to dead people.

But she hadn’t always been. Not until her best friend, Allison, had died. Well – three days _before_ Allison had died, when Lydia had somehow realised she’d known all along it was going to happen. Those three days had been torture. Just _looking_ at Allison had made Lydia’s throat ache like something was trying to climb up out of it. When Allison spoke, it was almost drowned out by the sound of an ambulance’s siren filling her ears, and, later, the sound of funeral bells. And when Allison really had been killed, after all of that, Lydia had screamed so loud it had set off car alarms all up and down the street.

Lydia has always believed that death and life are a pendulum, and when one thing ends, something new must start. When one door closes, another opens; that sort of thing. There were hundreds of anecdotes. And it was strange, but with the death of Allison, Lydia’s new life was created. It opened her eyes to what she was – a Banshee.

That was six years ago, and yet to Lydia it still feels like it could have been last week. She had been barely seventeen, and Allison not quite eighteen. And afterwards, Lydia was lost, to say the very least – without a best friend and aimlessly lead by a heartbroken teenage alpha and his pack of misfit toys. Lydia remembers the weeks after Allison’s death, when she would stay up all night with her radio set to a random frequency, just listening and searching for a snippet of Allison’s voice to let her know she hadn’t just dreamt up the whole thing.

It had taken Lydia a long time to understand that she hadn’t been the one to kill Allison. She had honestly thought that the strange feeling of knowing Allison would die was her _marking_ her best friend for death. That she had _caused_ it by feeling it. The pack had helped her, obviously, but they were all hurting as much as she was. Especially Scott. He’d lost his best friend, too. Allison had been there for Scott from the very start, fighting beside him, even against her own father and what he believed in as a hunter. And now Allison was gone.

Packs weren’t just made up of werewolves. They were made up of humans, too; and Banshees. They were just a group of lonely souls that banded together because it was all they could do to cope. Scott; his first betas Isaac and Derek; Cora, Boyd and Erica. Malia – their trademark werecoyote. And, of course, Lydia. With Allison gone, Lydia had become the only human, which was a role she didn’t much enjoy. It just stood as a constant reminder that her best friend was gone.

Anyway, Lydia had only had to endure that title for a few weeks until Deaton had figured out what she was. Then she got to become the only _Banshee_ in the pack, which was just as lonely, but at least explained one or two things.

But simply putting a name to her abilities wasn’t enough. It took her months - _years_ , even – to realise that her powers didn’t make her a monster. They made her _blessed_. Instead of hurting people as she had once thought, her gift gave her the power to _help_ people. Maybe Lydia was a monster in the eyes of the children’s books, maybe they all were. The rest of the pack definitely looked monstrous on the night of a full moon, when they would descend on the woods in Beacon Hills to push themselves to the limits, to wipe away the cobwebs on their feral instincts.

But just because they looked like monsters to outsiders, that didn’t make them monsters. ‘Not all monsters do monstrous things.’ Lydia has repeated that phrase in her head so many times throughout her life, she’s almost certain it’s engraved into her bones.

Over the years Lydia had worked hard on the abilities being a Banshee had given her. She had chipped away at the darkness around her heart, the pain and the loss that clouded her vision and connection with the spiritual world – the world after death. Lydia told her clients it was all down to her ‘third eye’ or her ‘head chakra’; but the truth was, Lydia’s skills came from somewhere much deeper and more sincere than that. The confusion and frustration she had felt for so long towards her abilities, and the pain and loss that had made her teenage years a living-hell was what fuelled her determination to _understand_.

So, since Lydia hadn’t much else to do with her time after Allison had died, she had started to do some research into her skills. And after not too long, research turned into practice and practice into exploration. Soon after _that_ , word spread of the red-haired girl in Beacon Hills who could talk to the dead. Of course, to the rest of the supernatural world she was just known as the red-haired _Banshee_ in Beacon Hills, but still – she was _known_. Lydia Martin had made a name for herself. Just not in the way she had once imagined.

Lydia had gone from being a confused and lonely teenage girl, straight to consulting Banshee psychotherapist with a little help from Deaton and the pack.

And it had all just spiralled out from there. Now she had business cards on her coffee table, apparently.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia’s phone seems to be permanently ringing. Her tone is a wind-chime sound. It tinkles away cheerfully on what seems to be a perpetual loop; the end of one phone call joining in with the start of next one. Some days, it’s a struggle for Lydia to not just throw it out of her third-floor window.

Today is definitely one of those days.

Lydia sighs dramatically into the phone at what feels like the hundredth caller she’s had this morning, ‘Jasmin,’ who wants to know if Lydia can do a ‘séance’ to help her find out where her dead aunt hid her last will and testament. Lydia is pretty sure that’s happened before in a movie she’s watched. It’s a full-time occupation distinguishing the prank callers from the actual serious clients.

“No, I don’t do séances,” Lydia tells the woman unapologetically. “And here’s a tip for you – anyone who claims they do is either a fake or a method-actor for the new Paranormal Activity movie.” Lydia’s door buzzer rings out in her living room, shrill and loud, so she tucks her phone up to her ear with her shoulder and lets the visitor up, unbolting the door to her apartment as she talks. “But I can book you in for a free consultation next Friday to work something out. Does that sound good? Right; three PM? Perfect. See you then.”

Jasmin at least sounds as though she has a purpose for her visit – that is, if she turns up. The worst appointments are the ones where the client just wants to ‘chat’ with their dead relative. That usually just ends in tears. It’s draining, having strangers believe and depend on you so wholeheartedly. If Lydia wasn’t so good at it, she probably wouldn’t even try. But she is good at it, so it would be a waste not to share her knowledge. From fortune readings to divination, Lydia – well, Ariel – does it all. And she _does not_ make mistakes.

Lydia holds a hand up to her forehead and takes a deep breath to centre herself before her eleven o’clock appointment reaches her apartment. The client had booked a last-minute appointment by phone only the night before. From what she can remember, she had spoken to a man with a thick accent that Lydia couldn’t place. The name in her diary is barely legible and she can’t even remember what they agreed to be doing, having just sprawled it into her planner while she was half-asleep on her bed. She really hopes it’s just a generic reading, so she won’t have to think too hard. God, Lydia needs a break.

She checks her reflection in the mirror one last time, untangling the feathers hanging from her ears and fluffing up her strawberry blonde curls from the headscarf tied and hanging down the back of her head. Her purple eyeliner is smudged a little from her stressful morning taking calls but she doesn’t have time to fix it, so she just smudges the other eye to match. The boho-chic hippy look her job asks for is definitely much less high maintenance than the outfits she wears when she actually goes out like a normal person – that is, when her long skirts don’t get caught in doors and her long floaty sleeves don’t dangle into her food as she’s trying to eat.

There’s a knock on the door just as Lydia is relighting her incense sticks, so she straightens up with a sigh and takes a deep breath to get herself into the character of Ariel. The bangles around her wrists and the beads on her anklet tinkle, and it sort of makes Lydia want to take them off and hurl them against the wall; but, as Ariel, she puts on an airy smile and lets her eyelids droop a little, giving the illusion of a calm, serene girl. She feels at once younger and impossibly old as Ariel, a trick she’d spent hours perfecting in front of the mirror. It’s a face that makes people trust her and let her in. As Ariel, she becomes the person she remembers her grandmother being. It’s so much more comforting to feel like a part of her grandmother is with her as she takes it upon herself to help every single person that wanders into her apartment.

Lydia pulls open the door and goes to greet the client with her trademark Ariel-smile – only the person standing on her doorstep _obviously_ isn’t a client. She knows that straight away.

He isn’t a client, because he’s Scott McCall.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lydia!” Scott greets gleefully, a huge smile on his face, before he’s scooping Lydia up into a huge bear-hug as though the last time he saw her was years ago and not, in fact, the previous week. He grimaces as he pulls a few stray pieces of fluff from his mouth when he pulls back – feather-earrings aren’t great for bear-hugs. “Or should I say Ariel; I’m your eleven AM!” he adds after a moment, waving his hands jazzily in a ‘surprise!’ gesture.

Lydia laughs and holds herself up higher, shaking herself more alert and awake as she drops the Ariel act. “Scott! What’s wrong with you?” She asks, shaking her head disapprovingly but unable to hide her smile when Scott’s is literally like staring directly into the sun. “You realise you could just have called me on my normal number like a regular person instead of putting on a dumb accent and making an appointment?” Lydia says as she shuts the door behind Scott and gestures for him to come inside. With her free hand, she starts taking off the clip-in rings that go all the way up the side of her ear. Those things _ache_.

“I just thought you could do with a nice surprise,” Scott says as he runs his finger down the beaded curtain that hangs in place of a door over her coat closet. The glass beads reflect the sunlight from the window onto the walls and Scott watches them like a puppy, wide eyed and smiling.

Lydia rolls her eyes but leans over to ruffle Scott’s hair affectionately. “That’s sweet, Scott. But shouldn’t you be at work?” She heads through the small apartment to her kitchen, which actually looks like a normal person’s kitchen instead of something from the set of Charmed.

“Thanks,” Scott says as Lydia passes him a glass of coke. He sits down at the small kitchen table and looks up at her with that same beaming smile. “Deaton gave me the day off.”

Lydia sits down too, opposite Scott with a cup of tea and stares at him from across the table, eyebrows raised. He seems content to sip at his coke and look around the room, which makes Lydia suspicious. “How’s the rest of the pack?” She asks, gently prompting him. Lydia knows they’re all fine – they have a group Facebook chat and her laptop is constantly dinging from the notifications, usually from Erica and Cora, who seem to spend a lot of time mercilessly teasing Derek for everyone else to see.

“They’re all good,” Scott says, nodding. There’s another brief silence and Lydia waits with her arms crossed because this is the moment Scott is going to ask her for a favour – she doesn’t have to be psychic to know that.

When it doesn’t come instantly, Lydia sighs and picks up the stray bottle of nail paint from the table in front of her and uncaps it. “Scott, I know if you just wanted a chat you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of making an appointment – you would have just turned up in the middle of a session, like you usually do.” She touches up the chips in her nails with aquamarine glitter as she talks and can practically sense Scott’s sheepish expression looking at her. “Just spit it out, Scott. Is it Deaton? Does he need my expertise again?”

Scott laughs and shakes his head and at least has the decency to look apologetic. “Okay, you’re right. I do need a favour. But I just felt _bad_ coming to ask you because you’re always so busy and stressed out. And honestly? It always smells gross in your apartment. No offence.” Scott sniffs the air and grimaces. “Like burning leaves and twigs.”

“Incense,” Lydia supplies, nodding. “And none taken – I’m not really a fan either. They’re part of the Ariel image,” she adds with a shrug.

Scott looks at her weirdly, like he always does when she talks about her stage-character as if she’s a different person. “It’s been such a long time and I still don’t really get the whole Ariel thing,” he admits, crinkling his nose up from confusion – or maybe it’s just the incense.

“There’s nothing to get. She’s not a real person – she’s just who I pretend to be when I’m working. I tell clients my name’s Ariel so I don’t have swarms of people stalking me on Facebook. It really isn’t that complex, Scott,” Lydia explains in a long-suffering sort of voice. “Did you find another box of stray kittens that need a home? Because I told you last time you asked me to take one that I’m not allowed pets in my apartment. And before you ask, no. Not even fish.”

Scott shakes his head, and it’s then that Lydia notices his smile has dimmed slightly. “It’s not that. I came to ask if you could maybe help someone.”

Lydia stares at Scott seriously, eyes narrowed. It’s been a long time since the pack has been in trouble. Since Allison had died, in fact. But something in Scott’s voice puts Lydia on edge. “Okay. Well, I can do my best, but it depends on what’s wrong. Who needs help?”

 Scott chews on his lip before leaning back in his chair and pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “Do you remember in kindergarten I had a friend called Stiles? He was like, crazy in love with you, remember? We used to sit in the sandpit together?”

Lydia looks at Scott with one eyebrow raised, wondering if _he’s_ the one who needs help. “You can’t expect me to keep tabs on every single person with a crush on me, Scott. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Scott opens his wallet and digs behind the little plastic slot, where he keeps that old photo of Allison taken at prom. He pulls out a dog-eared and crumpled Polaroid photograph from behind it and pushes it across the table to Lydia. “Me and Stiles. And there’s you running away in the background. You didn’t want to have your picture taken with two gross boys,” Scott explains, grinning again suddenly at the memory.

Lydia picks up the photograph and studies it, wracking her brain to remember the boy. She recognises Scott instantly; he still looks exactly like the four-year-old he once was. The boy beside him is small, with a sharp nose and fluffy light brown hair sticking up all over his head. There’s a spattering of freckles and moles across his face and bare arms, and he’s grinning mischievously at the camera. “I believe you that he exists now, but I still don’t remember him. So this Stiles needs my help, why?” She asks as she passes the photograph back.

Scott looks disappointed for a moment before speaking. “Well, his mom died when we were all in kindergarten so he and his dad – his dad was a deputy at the station, remember? They moved upstate after that because his dad got offered another job. And, um…” Scott trails off, shrugging a little bashfully. “After Allison died I was sort of lonely, so I tracked him down again. My mom kept their address. And we were sending letters for a while and then we switched to phone calls and then we skyped, like, every day.”

Lydia stares at Scott incredulously, listening quietly before she holds up a silencing hand. “Wait. I swear, Scott McCall, this story is starting to sound like the first five minutes of an episode of Catfish. Did you tell Stiles about everything that happened?”

Scott shakes his head vigorously, before it turns into a sort-of half shrug. “I didn’t outright tell him. He’s really smart, Lydia. Like, your level of smart. He figured it out by himself.”

“He just _figured out_ you were a werewolf,” Lydia repeats doubtfully, frowning in confusion. “Is he a werewolf?”

Scott sighs and shakes his head. “No, he’s human. Well, I mean… I think he is. But that’s sort of why I need your help.”

Lydia narrows her eyes for a moment. She hums thoughtfully under her breath, before leaning nearer to Scott in her chair. “I’m listening.”

Scott runs a hand through his hair and bites his lip before talking again. “Basically, my mom and Stiles’ dad started talking again too after me and Stiles did, and somehow his dad found out about the supernatural stuff, too. Nothing specific. I guess my mom or Stiles just told him the basics, or whatever. I dunno. But I didn’t hear from Stiles for ages. Not a word.” Scott’s arms start to move as he speaks, as though telling the story is making him more and more agitated. He leans forward over the table and lowers his voice and Lydia instinctively leans nearer to him.

“And then after about two months of radio silence – a week ago – his dad called me and said he thinks something is wrong. It’s really weird, Lyds’ – he told me that Stiles has started sleepwalking and when he wakes up he’s in the middle of nowhere with scratches up his arms. And he had to drop out of college because he suddenly stopped being able to read, which is why he never emailed me back. John – Stiles’ dad – said that Stiles didn’t want to call me and make me worry. But obviously I worried anyway.” Scott chews on his lip anxiously as he talks and Lydia leans over to rest her hands on top of his in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. She hasn’t seen Scott this worked up in a long time.

“Scott, have you ever considered the option that maybe Stiles is just a little… You know. Unstable?” Lydia asks slowly, lightly. Sure, what Scott described sounded a little like the possessions she’d read about, but since she’d never actually encountered one herself she wasn’t sure what to believe. It all sounded a bit too fantasy-novel for her world, which was really saying something.

Scott sighs. “That’s what I thought,” he says with a miserable nod. “But then his dad told me that he’s been talking in his sleep.” Scott pauses for a moment, looking at Lydia with a strange look that makes Lydia feel like she should already know what Scott is going to say. “Apparently he’s been talking about someone called Ariel,” he says, glancing up and meeting Lydia’s eyes with an unreadable look.

Lydia feels the blood drain from her face and a sudden chill go up her spine. She leans back in her chair, keeping her expression carefully blank. “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” she says slowly. Somehow, she already knows it isn’t.

Scott tilts his head to the side, looking doubtful. “He told his dad he needed to come to Beacon Hills to talk to Ariel.” Lydia can feel Scott’s eyes on her, as though he’s waiting for her to explain what’s going on.

For once, Lydia can’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so excited about this you guys

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this AU in my head since 3b and i only just got round to writing it  
> it's sort of weird but i think i like it so far! i have a few more chapters ready to go and a good idea of how this fic is gonna end up. i'm really excited about it!  
> might change the title though, just a warning


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